


how it was and how it will be

by neige23



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Smacking, Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Being Sure About It, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Carsick, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Cornwall, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Frottage, Goodbyes, Howlers (Harry Potter), Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt Harry Potter, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Ministry nonsense, Ministry of Magic Employee Harry Potter, Minor Character Death, Shell Cottage (Harry Potter), Sleepy Draco, Supportive Harry, The Ocean is Freakin' Cold, Whump, Wrist Injury, and forevers, brief mention of hypothetical car crash, brief physical violence, mild homophobia, sad draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-09-29 03:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20427767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neige23/pseuds/neige23
Summary: School is over, and adulthood is beginning. And life has been hard. Very hard. And miraculously, Draco hasn't had to navigate this alone. He and Harry head to Shell Cottage to breathe, start over, and figure things out in the wake of a tragedy.





	1. a prayer for which no words exist

The knob that made the heat come on wasn’t working. Harry kept one hand on the wheel and used the other to grab and twist at the dial, but all that rushed out was cold air. He tucked his free hand into the armpit of his woolly jumper, shivering a little. He looked up at the rear-view mirror, checking on the sorrowful blond draped on the leather back seat. 

Draco was frowning, a little, in his sleep. He must be warm, Harry thought, as Harry had made sure after the last rest stop to tuck him tightly, to his chin, with the green and silver blanket that Molly had knit for him on the first Christmas she decided to love him: when he had done enough of her dishes and swept enough of her floors non-magically, and had cared for Harry without running away or hurting him, and had worked himself down to just the good of himself. That, she had decided, merited a blanket. And perhaps an extra spoonful of pudding on his plate, to build him back up again. 

Despite the blanket, the tip of Draco’s nose was rosy. Harry smiled a little. They drove past a flock of seagulls, who screeched indignantly at their car before winging off into a particularly lovely Cornish sunset. Their wings were like white marble on rose-colored marble. Harry made a mental note to describe this later to Draco, over tea. 

The wand that rested on the dashboard swung a little to the left, a little to the right, adjusting to the rougher, seaside terrain. It settled on a southeast tilt, and glowed firmly golden, confirming the way. It wouldn’t be much longer, now. Harry’s stomach grumbled. He wondered what Fleur had left for them in the way of food. 

They pulled up to Shell Cottage just as the last of the sun was disappearing. The house seemed to look them over with pursed lips, glowing primly and pinkly against the dusk. Harry reached back and lay his hand on his lover’s shoulder, resting it there for a moment, absorbing warmth. Then he gently squeezed, and gently shook. 

Draco’s eyes screwed together tightly, and Harry laughed. Sleep always made him seem like a little boy again, and this was no exception: squinty, flushed, and with golden hair sticking up at odd angles, the man who usually looked so cool and carved out of stone more closely resembled a ruddy toddler. 

“How long was I –”  
“The whole way.”   
“Damn. I was going to –”  
“I think you needed it, darling.” 

For once, Draco couldn’t disagree. Harry got out of the car, groaning and stretching in a way that Draco supposed was appropriate for someone who had just driven five hours, but it reminded him a bit of the way Harry used to warm up before matches, stalking around the pitch with all of his muscles and confidence. _My jock,_ he thought. He smiled. He clambered out of the car, turned an alarming shade of grassy green, and promptly sat down again on the gravel driveway. 

Harry swiveled and dropped their carpet bags, knees popping like bubble wrap as he crouched next to him. “What’s that about, then?” he asked. Draco couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, which were perfect twin mirrors of the sea, the setting sky, Draco’s sweaty, pale face.

“A rather delayed onset motion sickness. I suppose. I have to say, I told you this would happen. We didn’t have _cars_ and we certainly didn’t take entire days to travel anywhere when I was younger and – these roads are so bumpy and – hey – oaf, put me down –” 

Harry interrupted him, scooping one arm underneath his lover’s legs and wrapping the other arm around his waist, which was heaving with indignation. 

“Love, turn it off. We’re here. We don’t have to think or worry.” He strode up the drive, stopping once to readjust his grip and kiss the top of the blond man’s head.

And just like that, Draco’s mind went clear again. Frustration bled out to tiredness, and he let his head drop against Harry’s chest. 

They reached the door, battered clean and smooth by sea wind and salt air. Harry pushed his glasses on top of his hair, scratching the back of his head. 

“When Fleur wrote me back she said she’d let the house know we were coming. So I guess. We. Hmm.” 

Draco reached out with his right hand, pressing his palm against the pale wood. It softened against his touch, and glowed back at him, buttery and golden. Harry did the same, and the house shook itself loose for them, the door’s locks untumbling themselves and swinging open for the two. 

Harry took a big, dramatic step over the threshold, refusing to let Draco down without a kiss. He shyly complied. And then his lover dumped him, without ceremony, onto the squashy settee in the parlor. “Two seconds,” he said. “The bags.” He spun and jogged back out the door, down the lane.

Draco stood up, a little more cautiously, and took a moment to look around the room. It was ethereally lovely, impossibly white and clean and far too tidy for a house with three little children who lived in it. The mantel had a jam jar of sea lavender resting on it, next to an elegant cluster of photos of the babies and their parents. 

An arched doorway led to the kitchen, which held a table laden with tins of homemade biscuits, steak pies, and bowls and bowls of fruits and vegetables that Fleur had coaxed from the rocky little gardens that surrounded the house. 

Draco found a note: someone had placed a little seashell on top of it, to keep it from fluttering off the table. 

_Harry, thank you BEAUCOUP beaucoup beaucoup for watching the cottage. I think Bill is pleased to have us with him “on holiday,” but I do not think those people at Gringotts are letting it be too much of a holiday. Enjoy the food, eat lots and swim much and rest. Allo to your man. xx_

A floorboard creaked behind him and he dropped the parchment, guiltily. Shame crept up his ears and turned them pink, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but Harry walked right past him, cramming pasties in his face and sighing contentedly. He picked up the letter, glancing it over. “Ah, they say hello.” 

He switched the radio on, got water in the kettle, and popped the cold roast in the oven to warm through, all in an instant. Like magic. Draco let his shoulders drop and released a shaky breath, letting go. Turning it off. He rolled up his sleeves to help with dinner.


	2. reborn, wild-eyed, free.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night makes them new again, and morning brings news. Or, you can take the boys away from the Ministry but you can't take the Ministry away from the boys. Or, bureaucracy can be heartbreaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright we have a little bit of porn in here sorry! not sorry!

Draco sat up in bed, leaning on his elbows, watching himself be undone. His lover’s mouth was hot and wet and fast. His eyes were wide and glassy, looking up at Draco, working towards a sign. It came. 

Everything else that wasn’t Harry rolled up and away, out of sight. His neck craned back, grotesque, beautiful. His torso twisted. His fingers made a million frozen movements.

Harry swallowed, wiped sweat off his brow, coughed. Spat. Laughed. Kissed the inside of Draco’s thigh, relishing scents and tastes that were becoming blessedly familiar. Draco pulled at his head like a drowning man, forcing him face-level. They kissed like the movies. It was so honest, and so good. 

~~

They left the window open, not caring about the cold. The sound of the waves was more important. 

Draco fell asleep first, curled like a fox against Harry’s side. Harry pressed against him, looking at the moon. Draco said something softly, sadly, in the language we can only speak when we’re not awake. Harry didn’t know how to fix it. He pressed tighter. 

~~

The morning broke, like a fever. They made pancakes, played chess, drank tea. They put on shirts. 

~~

Neither of them could find Draco’s coat, and both insisted that the other had been in charge of tossing it in the car. A terse joke from Harry brought sudden, angry tears to the other man’s eyes, surprising them both.

“Babe –”  


“I just feel. Stupid. We’re running low on milk.”

He grabbed Harry’s coat and stepped through the door. He begrudgingly accepted a kiss before going. Harry watched him through the window as he turned his collar up against the breeze. 

Rattled, he sat with yesterday’s _Daily Prophet_. There was a notice about an estate sale; some witch was getting rid of her things, preparing for a retirement in France. He earmarked the page. 

Draco had had to spend time without his wand. Harry didn’t know much about this time – his lover didn’t like to speak about it. But in that time, he had fallen in love with the little everyday intricacies that most wizards their age didn’t have time for. 

He learned to like the feeling of soapsuds on his hands, the challenge of folding a bedsheet. He’d spent many sleepless nights in the Manor taking apart wardrobes, bookshelves, carriage clocks, seeing how little parts and large parts could disconnect and rejoin. How something can be dashed and made whole again. 

They were looking for a coffee table for their flat. Maybe Draco could find one at the sale, sand it down. Make it theirs. 

He took an experimental sip of tea. It had gone cold. A crash at the kitchen window jolted him, smashing the ceramic mug against his teeth. He spun, cursing, to find an imperious-looking tawny owl on the ledge. She tapped at the glass, intimidating in her officiousness. A black-edged envelope was fixed to her leg, bearing a Ministry seal. It was smoking alarmingly. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

Harry ran to the window, throwing the sash open. He snatched at the parchment, not caring about the owl’s disapproving squawk. He rummaged through his rucksack for an instant quill, and shoved the front door open, tripping over himself. He took off in the direction of town, thoughts tumbling jaggedly. 

He saw a blond head bobbing through lavender and tall grass and he felt like crying with relief. 

~~

Draco heard quick footsteps behind him. He paused, pulled out his wand, and prepared. 

When it was Harry that came rushing round the bend, rather than some wild animal, or assassin, he didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. He settled on sheathing his wand, pulling together the most disdainful expression he could. 

“Potter, I nearly just cursed your face off. What? Did you forget to tell me we were out of something else?” 

“No,” he gasped. “Ah, my side.” He clutched at a stitch. He thrust the parchment in front of Draco. “I swear I don’t know what happened but the parole slip followed us to Cornwall. You need to sign it before it blows.” 

Draco stared a moment. “Explain.” 

“After – after you sign it. I’ve already done it. Here.” He handed Draco the quill. Draco took it and the parchment, which was smoldering dangerously round the edges. He opened it, hand shaking a little. 

It was a standard form, printed in scarlet and black, from the Department of Magical Parole Enforcement. 

It listed the date, Draco’s approximate location, underlined disapprovingly, and the months remaining in which he’d be mandated to check in with the Ministry regarding his whereabouts. There were many of them. 

He spun Harry around roughly, using the man’s back to lean against as he signed in a furious, elegant hand. Harry’s signature, ink-blotted and hurried, was on the witness line below.  


He threw the envelope on the ground. The two watched as it glowed officiously, folded itself into a neat square, and burnt thoroughly away. 

“Listen, I’m sorry. I registered the holiday with the squad. I swear they knew we were going to – Hawkins must not have filed my notice correctly.”

“Harry,” Draco said. His face was pained. “Their office is across the hall from yours. All I asked you to do was submit the form for me on time.” 

“No, I – hey! Get back here!” 

Draco walked ahead, not looking at Harry.

“I’m telling you, I did. This isn’t my fault.” 

Draco turned on his heel. Harry took a step back, alarmed at his lover’s expression. 

“You should already understand this, as you are a Ministry employee. You undoubtedly know this, as an Auror who makes regular arrests. But as your brain doesn’t seem to be currently functioning, I will remind you that when a wizard is criminally processed and released to parole, they are still on fucking _parole_. Any attempt to break out of it, to leave your area of restriction without advance notice is another fucking _crime_. If we missed this, my ass would’ve been in Azkaban with my – with my father.” 

Harry stepped forward, grabbing Draco’s wrists. His fingers were plucking at the air, nervously, but his face was resolutely turned from Harry, his eyes shining panickedly at the sea. 

“Draco. The form was all clear. You filled it out perfectly. I triple-checked it. I can only assume that someone messed with it.” 

Draco made a noise between laughter and a sob. 

“And I promise you, I swear on everything important that someone’s going to be beaten senseless when I get back. This will not be happening again.”

He wrapped Draco fiercely in his arms. 

“They’re gonna know you’re mine. One way or the other. Do you understand me?” 

Draco nodded, wide-eyed. It was all he could do. 

They stayed there, longer than they should’ve. They wiped their eyes and agreed that yes, they’d better get going before the market closed for the day. They walked towards town, leaning heavily on each other.


	3. your heart taking root in your body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a quick look backward/a rewind/a recollection of how they met, properly, as adults, for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please be careful with yourself! updated tags to include minor character death, blood, wrist injury, and mention of suicide.

Harry was sitting at his desk, one hand clutching a dead-cold cup of tea, the other shoved into the thicket of his hair. The Sneakoscope that Ron had given him in school chirruped blearily, spinning like a cautious drunk across some unfinished paperwork. It skirted too closely to the edge, dropping into Harry’s lap. He picked it up and placed it on the desk again. 

The other witches and wizards in his office had tchotchkes on their desks, too: tiny little skulls whose teeth still chattered; busted doorknobs from midnight raids; contraband Exploding Snap decks that sizzled threateningly at the very mention of a game. 

He had brought it to work with him on his first day, four years ago. He supposed it was symbolic. It reminded him of Mad-Eye, and a time when he knew what he was doing. When he totally knew what he wanted. 

It had been sleeping – if things like that sleep – in his pocket, missing the whole commute. But as soon as Harry drew it out, placing it on top of his desk, it began to whirr and twitch in tight circles across the surface. A kind witch seated across the room called over to him. “Not to worry, darling. It’s probably Hawkins that’s setting it off.” Laughter rang through the space, and both Hawkins and Harry flushed. The other man rose, saying, “Does anyone but Potter want some tea?” He swept out of the room, brushing against Harry’s desk on his way. The Sneakoscope fell in the wastebasket, squawking in protest.

Since then, it had been living in one of Harry’s desk drawers, muffled by balled-up pieces of parchment scrawled with Harry’s more embarrassing case theories. He only took it out when he was alone, after-hours, and needed something to focus on. And for the most part, he was alone tonight. It was Christmas Eve. 

Of course, the Ministry didn’t exactly shut down on holidays. Junior staff, new hires, and those training to be Aurors were around. So were those who didn’t have anywhere else to be. And while Harry knew that Molly had a bed made up for him, which would have an embarrassing pile of gifts at the foot of it when he woke up in the morning, he couldn’t help but feel as though he fell in both categories. 

Singh and Birch were out responding to reports of suspicious packages, a remnant protocol from Mad-Eye’s tenure. Aaronson had _fallen_ for a suspicious package, and had been escorted to St. Mungo’s by an utterly exasperated HR rep to determine exactly what had been inside those bonbons. And Hawkins and his inexplicably attractive wife (featured prominently in several of Harry’s crumpled conspiracy parchments) were somewhere tropical. So Harry was alone when Matilda, a junior secretary in Magical Parole Enforcement, popped a frazzled head into the office. 

“Potter – oh, thank goodness, all our people are on holiday or going mad. Hang on, where are all of yours?” Harry rose quickly, sloshing tea across the case file he’d been staring at. 

“I’m afraid it’s the same by us, Matilda. What’s happened? What do you need?” 

“We’ve got a Caterwaul off at –” she looked down at a hastily-written note. “Malfoy Manor. And I checked and Draco Malfoy isn’t at the flat that was appointed him. So it’s him that’s set it off, but we don’t know who or what he’s got with him.”

Harry was pulling his curse-resistant, Ministry-issued robes over his jeans and Christmas jumper, Santa Claus’ stupid, hand-knitted face disappearing under stiff, reinforced black fabric. He made his way past Matilda, into the hall. 

“Potter – hang on – Potter! Don’t you need some kind of, I don’t know, back-up?”

“No,” he panted, jogging down the hall. “I don’t want him to get hurt. Tell Gennaro to send one of her interns to cover my desk. And don’t – don’t worry about the log until I get back. I’ll handle the paperwork.” 

He made his way to the street, through the fireplace at the back end of the hall. He thought of Draco’s face, the stone walls of the house the man had grown up in, and spun on his heel, vanishing into the evening. 

~~

He landed hard in the snow outside the Manor, sending a flare of pain through a Quidditch-fucked knee. The gate was locked, as he suspected it would be, and alohomora obviously wasn’t doing the trick. But the light from the tip of his wand soon led him to a trail of unsteady footprints, and around the first bend of the wall there was a trellis, with roses that shouldn’t have been blooming in December. 

Harry stuck a foot in the trellis, experimentally. The roses and vines twisted together, forming a rope ladder in one of the most elegant turns of magic that Harry had ever seen. He used it to inelegantly clamber to the top, dropping down the other side into a mercifully high bank of snow. 

He jammed his hands into his armpits, wishing he’d thought to wear gloves. None of the windows were lit, and the Manor stood there, dressed only in the light of the moon. White marble, reflecting white moonbeams. 

Harry shook himself. _You’re here to find someone._

He listened for movements, for voices, but it was hard to tell if anyone was there over the wails of the Caterwaul charm, even if the sirens were decreasing in volume with time. 

He wound up not hearing him at all. He saw him, first. A small, sad lump in the snow beneath a window, around the back of the home. His hair was moon-colored. His face looked tired. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry said. The man on the ground stiffened. Harry showed his wand, taking one advancing step with his arms up in a way that he hoped conveyed no harm. 

“I’m here on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, who was informed of your breach of parole. Under the parameters of your release you are not to visit with your family members, or return to your family’s home. As such, I am required to take you into custody and – and until such time as – Malfoy, are you alright?”

Draco Malfoy had, for the duration of Harry’s statement, remained uncharacteristically quiet. He was staring, desperately, at some point in the distance too far away for Harry to make out. 

“No, Harry Potter. I’m not alright.” 

Harry knelt, and said, “I’m going to, erm, touch you.” He did.

“She’s dead,” Draco gasped. 

“She – what?”

“She’s dead.” He closed his eyes. “That’s why I’m here, you great dumb –” He cut himself off. 

“You broke parole – and came to the place where your mother is being held under house arrest – because you thought she was dead?” 

“I didn’t think,” he said. “I knew. You wouldn’t understand, though. You never knew your parents.”

Harry said nothing, but gripped Draco’s shoulder more tightly. 

The two looked at each other a moment. “I know I have never been pleasant to you. And that my family and the company they kept have done great harm to you and your loved ones. But I didn’t say that to disrespect your mother and father. It’s just different, with old families from old magic. It’s like having three hearts in your chest. And one of them stopped beating tonight. I felt her take herself away and I had to come and – and make sure.” 

Harry was quiet for a moment, before speaking. “The Weasleys have this clock –” 

“That’s exactly the same concept. Just actualized. Made physical. My family was never sentimental enough to do that.” Draco pushed himself up on his elbows, winced, and dropped back into the snow. 

Harry groaned, realizing the shirt sleeve he was clutching wasn’t wet with melted snow, but rather, blood. “Malfoy, how many more ways were you planning on being an idiot tonight?”

“I don’t have a wand, so I punched through a window. A brutish solution,” he panted, “for a brutal problem.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Harry said, because he didn’t. He bound up Draco’s wrist with a torn piece of robe, flustered by the man who was surrendering himself so quietly, so oddly. “Listen, I need to verify what you’re saying. And you need to stay here while I do that. No scarpering, or I’m toast.” 

“I don’t actually think I’m capable of motion, at the moment. Go ahead, I’ll be here.” 

Harry swallowed thickly and hoisted a leg through the window. He tumbled into the parlor, and dozens of Malfoy ancestors hissed at the racket he made, staring disapprovingly at him from their frames. 

“Filthy half-blood. Absolutely no respect for the dead,” a wizened aunt called down from her portrait. 

“Sorry,” he said. He extinguished his wand, clutching it tightly.

_“Homenum Revelio.”_ No living person was here. 

It was in the next room that he saw a lovely white hand sticking out from underneath a blanket. Upturned, empty. Asking for something in the moonlight. 

It was all he felt like seeing. He climbed back through the window. 

Draco’s teeth were rattling now, and his eyes were wide, shining. “I covered her,” he said. “She’s so proud. She wouldn’t have wanted to be seen like that.”

“I understand,” Harry said. It was all he could say. He pushed away thoughts of case files and records and magical forensics and focused on being human. 

The Caterwaul charm had stopped, filling the air with disquiet. Harry took a moment to send his Patronus to Matilda, with a message that couldn’t even hope to explain what had just happened. He thought for a moment, before kneeling next to Draco, who was steadily unspooling with grief, bleeding into the snowbank. 

“Draco,” he whispered, “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I promise I’m not taking you back to Azkaban. I’m sorry this is happening to you. And there’s a million protocol things I should be doing right now but it’s Christmas Eve and no one else is around to help me with them. Can you help me with something?” 

Draco said nothing.

“Only you and I and this nice lady named Matilda know what’s happened. That’ll be like that until the morning, probably. And I’m not going to take you to St. Mungo’s, because that would cause the scene of all scenes. So I need you to help me by getting up. I’m going to take you to my apartment. We’re going to look in my medical textbook from the Academy and double-check which spell will fix your wrist, because I am shit at magical first aid. And we will try to sleep and face this all in the morning.” 

Draco said nothing.

“Can you handle a Side-Along Apparition right now?”

“Please leave me,” Draco said quietly. He took his good hand and began to unwrap Harry’s bindings.

Harry caught him by the wrist, squeezing hard. The blond man gasped. “Not a chance.” 

~~

Draco’s face slipped up, out of the waves, pink in setting sunlight. He waved to Harry, who sat on the rocky beach, pebbles digging uncomfortably into the backs of his thighs through his jeans. Harry shaded his eyes and waved back, signaling to Draco to come back ashore. 

Draco made his way, knifelike, to the beach. 

“You sh-sh-should’ve c-come in the water, Harry. It’s so l-lovely this time of year.” 

Harry wrapped him in the towel he’d been holding against his chest, warming it through while his lover swam. 

“I don’t think it’s advisable for both of us to be idiots at once.” 

Draco smiled, teeth chattering. Harry felt a sudden pang, next to his heart. 

“Come. Tea, and hot water bottle, and blanket, and radiator, and – and –”

“S-supper.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak shiver.” But he tucked the ends of Draco’s towel in tightly, before dashing up the reedy path back to Shell Cottage, ahead of him, to get the hob started. 

He was eager to warm. Eager to fix. 

Draco followed, stepping carefully around bits of sea glass and wood.


	4. let's say that God is the space between two men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heroes eat pancakes and suck face (and fingers, and other things.)

Harry looked through the kitchen window, watching his lover’s head grow strawberry blond with the dusk, as the sun tucked itself determinedly behind the waves. His elbow found the countertop, and his hand found his chin. 

He noticed, for the first time, that the salt in the air and the ocean made Draco’s hair curl up on itself, a bit, with little ringlets at the nape of his neck. This filled him up from nose-tip to toes with a contentment that scared him in its importance, its strength. He felt locked in. He felt good about it.

The kettle shrieked in agreement and he slipped, thudding his elbow. Draco turned his head at the kitchen’s noises, seeing Harry fall. He mouthed, _hang on_, and headed for the door, laughter dropping from his mouth like pearls. 

“Arrgh.”

“You’re –,” he cut himself off, still laughing a little. He switched the stovetop’s knob off and rearranged his face to show concern. “You’re alright, though?” 

“Yes.” He nursed his elbow. “But now you’re dripping on the flagstones and still cold and I’ve lost my head start on supper. And maybe feeling in my arm.”

“Here,” Draco said. “Scooch up.” He grabbed a tea cozy off the counter and slid it under Harry, cushioning a bruised ego and tailbone. His surf-cool hands skimmed against the swath of skin showing from where Harry’s jeans dipped down and his shirttails rode up, making the man jump at the touch. 

He panicked blindly for a moment. He thought of snow and moonlight and blood and then, without thinking, grabbed Draco’s two hands with his one good one and shoved them between his denim-clad thighs, desperate to warm them. 

Draco melted against him, understanding, in time. They sat on the floor together for a while, until Harry was satisfied that Draco’s skin was pink enough again, not deadly white. 

The radio was switched on. Draco stripped down to his boxers, rummaged through a duffel in the other room, found flannel pants and an oversized sweater of Harry’s and slipped them over his head. 

Harry had reached up behind himself with one hand, feeling around the counter until finding an opened bag of Walkers. He gnashed salted crisps, watching unhappily as Draco began to pull plates, bowls, and utensils out and onto the table. 

“I was going to do that,” he said, thickly swallowing.

“Potter, let other people be in charge sometimes.” 

Draco frowned at the pantry. 

“What exactly is it that you were planning on doing? There’s not much in the way of things here.” 

“Tell me what’s there and I’ll tell you what to make.” 

Harry leaned back, closing his eyes in thought as Draco recounted cans of sardines, jars of sunflower seeds, complimentary pots of apple butter from a Muggle hotel that Bill must’ve brought home from somewhere, and a dusty brown bottle that looked as though something might be living in it.

“Don’t touch that one,” Harry said, more sharply than he meant to. Draco agreed that it was probably better to leave it, nimbly shutting the cupboard door as Harry sheepishly rattled off the possible dangers the bottle could yield. 

Further ransacking yielded flour, sugar, eggs; milk and soft butter lay on the countertop, left over from the afternoon’s tea. 

“I know what we should do.”

“What?”

"Let’s make a baby.” 

Draco blanched. 

“A Dutch one.” 

“What?” the blond man said.

“It’s something I made a few times for Aunt Petunia’s garden club brunches. It was in an old patisserie book that I swiped from Mrs. Figg’s house, once. I suppose it’s like a Yorkshire pudding, but more, erm, glamorous.” 

“Darling, none of those words mean things to me but if you say it’s good, let’s _faire la cuisine_.”

Draco whisked together the dry ingredients and made a fuss about cracking the eggs with one hand, checking to see if his lover was impressed. He was pleased to see that he was. He whisked, gently, while the oven heated itself through, and Harry slurped tea and proclaimed the next steps of assembly in a way so pompous that it would’ve been insufferable, if it had been anyone other than him. When Draco flashed _shut it_ eyes after a critique of his form, Harry grinned back, cradling his (now, mostly-healed) elbow for show. 

The batter was ready long before the oven was. Many happy moments passed in between, with Draco joining Harry on the floor again, the men’s backsides pressed against the oven door, leaching heat against the chill of the evening. Their hands found each other’s knees and it excited them, stomachs jumping with pleasure at the other man’s touch. Harry’s legs slid open and Draco slipped between them, facing the dark-haired man. He took off his lover’s glasses, gently. He kissed the elbow. He kissed his lips. 

Kisses in their bed were hungry kisses, that led to hungry loving, heaving bellies, wet bedding that needed cleaning charms before the two could collapse, love-spent, on top. The kisses exchanged here, on the floor, were much quieter, and maybe more important. Draco’s tongue searched, looking for trails to follow later, taking note of chapped lips and a tooth with a Muggle crown on it towards the back and the way the inside of Harry’s cheek felt like silk, and he groaned at the thought of what else could be put in that mouth, other than his tongue, and how quietly thrilling it was to render Harry Potter speechless. The man who had ended the world-that-was and made this new life for them with no question, no hesitation, panted underneath him, hips rising to press against Draco’s. 

The oven dinged and Harry’s stomach growled, almost simultaneously. Draco laughed and kissed the stomach, too. “Let’s fill that,” he said.

The batter went into a hot pan, then into the oven, as Harry discreetly adjusted the crotch of his pants. The men knelt in front of the door, watching the pancake form and puff up and through a layer of melted butter, rising and puffing its way up into the shape of a burnished golden crown, looking, as Harry had mentioned at the start, rather glamorous.  


It came out of the oven. It was perfect. They admired it, marveling at the little dark brown nutty bits of milk solids from the butter that had toasted on the raised edges of the puffed monstrosity. They tore off little pieces and swiped them across the pots of apple butter and honey and jam that they found in the cupboard, feeding each other and sucking sugar off of sticky fingers. 

And though he technically didn’t have to, Harry did the dishes, afterwards, to be fair, and because he felt as though he should be doing something with his hands. He heard clearing up behind him as Draco gathered plates and silverware and screwed the lids back onto the various jam jars. The blond came up behind him, kissing him on the cheek as he tipped the dishes into the sudsy water, and he wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, swaying a little with the crackling song that the little kitchen radio was trying so desperately to pull in from a nearby tower. 

A dish slipped through Harry’s fingers, cracking against the sink edge, as Draco dropped swiftly to his knees, nudging Harry’s hard-on back with hot breath and kneading fingers. Harry balled his fists up against the countertop and, gasping, said, “_Reparo_,” and the dish sealed itself together again as Draco’s lips found the tip of his dick. Harry wanted to tell the blond how gorgeous the flush of red heat was on his pale face, how good his mouth felt (it was like silk boxers, but if they were wet, but in a good way, and oh, God, words were failing him), and then Draco’s tongue swirled up from root to tip in a way that whited out each of these thoughts from Harry’s mind, and all he could say was _fuck_. He did, many times. He grabbed at the back of Draco’s head, clutching at those little curls at the nape of his neck, and he came, looking wildly out the window at night-dark waves crashing against the pebbled beach, the surf sucking in and letting go, white foam clinging delicately to the rocks.

“Agh. God. Let’s – repeat. Me. To you. Let’s – bed?”

“Ever the elocutionist.” Draco led, as if dancing, and unclicked the bedroom door. Morning came, and they did not notice, sleeping hard and satisfied and tangled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> write what you know?ish?
> 
> Cook along with Harry and Draco! https://food52.com/recipes/7645-david-eyre-s-pancake


	5. the shape of everything you need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a morning and an afternoon in Cornwall, with sad kisses and rain and many feelings. 
> 
> updated tags - mild homophobia, accidental physical violence

Draco had gotten up first, slipping out of Harry’s arms and down the hall, into the kitchen, greeting the Cornish sun that gleamed so cold and cleanly through the sea-battered windows of this house. He’d paid the owl for the _Prophet_, fishing Knuts out of the pocket of Harry’s jeans, which still lay crumpled on the floor of the hallway, left there in haste the night before.

He had put the kettle on for tea and did little things with his time while it steeped: solving half the crossword in his head, refreshing the water in the jam jars of lavender that lined the windowsill, rubbing experimentally at a scratch on the floor with his sock. The tea became rose-dark and ready for milk, which he splashed in from the enamel pitcher in the fridge. 

Even the milk was different here, thick and with faint traces of clean, bright grass, nothing like what was sold in the city. He tucked the paper under his arm, took a cup in each hand, and made his way back to the bedroom door, nudging it open with his foot.

Harry had rolled over on his back in Draco’s absence, covers bunched around his waist. Draco stood for a moment in the doorway, taking in the rise and fall of his lover’s chest, and the soft sound of air rushing through parted lips. But as he moved towards the bedside table, eyes focused on the tops of the mugs, so as not to spill, he did not notice Harry’s clenched fists, bundled in the bedding, or the way his jaw tightened and flexed, or the beading of sweat against pale skin and dark hair.

He put the mugs down and turned, ducking his head towards Harry’s, lips brushing the damp forehead. And as he finally came to notice these things, pulling back with alarm, Harry’s eyes flew open and he looked at Draco, without really seeing him. And in this moment of confusion, between nightmare and morning, the heel of his hand collided with Draco’s chin.

The blond man stumbled back a bit, bringing his hand to his face in astonishment. He felt white heat and anger and fear, left over from the days in which his father did terrible things to him and then, as quickly as it all bloomed up, it vanished, as he looked up at his lover’s face, which was crumpled with tears. He crawled into bed and held him in his arms, telling him to be quiet, to stop apologizing, which the other man could not seem to do. 

Harry’s fingers moved quickly and anxiously over Draco’s jaw, and Draco let them, feeling his partner’s need to smooth, to fix, to make things right again. Some time passed and Harry, though stressed, and still breathing fast, allowed himself to be stilled. They lay, facing each other, and Draco carefully took hold of Harry’s biceps, counting backwards from three, before rolling the two of them over to the other end of the bed.

“There,” he said. “Now we’re on the right side of it.” Harry found that he could laugh a little, making Draco’s heart leap. He slid out of the bed with a thump, patting the table until he felt his glasses, and then left the room, with a promise to make fresh cups of tea. Draco followed him and they stood at the sink, cheek to bruised cheek. They held hands at the table. 

Draco wrapped one arm around Harry’s waist as they stood at the bathroom mirror, daubing on healing ointments. He didn’t need to ask the contents of his lover’s head, as they were plainly evident on his face, in shadows and hollows that the sun and salt air and sex had been steadily diminishing, but could not completely vanish. 

He screwed the cap on the jar and kissed the last of the worries away from the taller man. If life could not be perfect for Harry Potter, then Draco would make sure, at least, that it was very good.

~~

Later in the day, Harry sat outside the crowded tourist shop in town, waiting for Draco to finish up inside. He was at once too warm in his wool sweater and too cold, and tugged at his collar with wind-stiff fingers. He wiped his glasses with a shirttail, accomplishing nothing, and put them back on.

He swiveled on the bench and looked through the glass-pane for the man he loved, scanning throngs of schoolchildren for Draco’s fine, blond head. He found him crouched next to a carousel of postcards, the hem of Harry’s borrowed jacket pooling around him on the floor. His partner frowned in thought as he considered one card bedecked with cartoon seagulls wearing sunglasses, and another with a seaside vista and a shimmering WISH YOU WERE HERE. 

He watched as Draco decided to buy both, walking up to the till and carefully tapping out the right amount of Muggle coins from a change purse, in a way that made something roar up fiercely, protectively, in Harry’s chest. He turned his head away from the shop window as Draco exited, so he wouldn’t know he’d been looking.

They made their way into a teashop after, with Harry ordering a large coffee to shake the last bit of contrariness from him. The two hooked private ankles under the table, knowing the difference between home and family and the outside world at large. Draco once again found himself rummaging through one of Harry’s pockets, grimacing at the layer of floo powder, crumbled biscuits, and shredded train tickets at the bottom, before pulling out a handful of Ministry-branded pencil stubs, picking the two least-dull from the bunch.  


He handed Harry the card with the seagulls on it. 

“I thought you might like to write something to Hermione and the babies.” 

“And Ron?” 

"If you must.” 

Harry smiled, knowing that the card had been picked with exactly Ron’s stupid taste in mind. 

A plate of sandwiches appeared by his elbow and was gone in an instant. Harry crammed his mouth with roast beef and seeded bread, speaking through the mound of food to tell Draco that he loved him, that blimey, he was hungry, that wasn’t Draco going to eat anything?, and that he didn’t even know where to begin to describe their time at Shell Cottage, all the while scribbling furiously on the back of the postcard. Draco nodded seriously at each garbled point his lover made, catching perhaps not every word, but every feeling. 

He picked up his pencil and turned over his card, which had a Muggle sort of trick to it: if you turned it one way, the tide would come in, and if you turned it the other, the waves would recede again. Harry told him that the word for it was “holographic,” and Draco said, “ah,” and then promptly forgot it. 

He began with “Dear Mrs. Weasley,” though for the last year or so, she had been imploring him to call her Molly, the very thought of which beset him with tremors. He couldn’t get his tongue to make the shape, or the sound to leave his mouth. When he had become alive again, after the war and imprisonment and his nursing at the hands of Harry Potter, he had come to know her as a ship’s captain, a watch tower, a sequoia of a woman. The idea of anything less than a formal title, at least for now, made him queasy.

She had no patience for his rigidness, his carefulness. And so she met every formality with a soft swat of her hand, a pat on his cheek, and the gift of a home-cooked meal, or stories about Harry from when he was a boy, or a kiss on the top of his head, which so flustered and quietly delighted him. 

And so his letter to Mrs. Weasley was as soft as he could make it, a clumsily-returned embrace. He promised that he and Harry were eating well (though her cooking still reigned supreme), and that the sun had been holding out, and that they’d even braved going into the ocean. He lied and said the water had been tolerable. 

He told her about the scratch on Shell Cottage’s kitchen floor, because he knew she took great delight in any imperfection of Fleur’s. He wrote that he missed their evening visits, but that they’d be home again soon. His heart twisted, a little, as soon as he’d put the words down. He peered across the table at Harry’s letter, scrawled slapdash with questions about the Cannons, and how business was faring with George.

A plate of cakes and little handheld pies came, next. The men swapped cards to add postscripts. Draco told Hermione to tell the children about the Lizard Peninsula, which he and Harry had hiked across, and how when Harry had whispered _hello_ in Parseltongue the rocks caught it, and echoed it back to them, in wild, rasped welcome. Harry wrote “Miss you, Mum,” on Molly’s note. 

They spoke about their own mothers, for a time. What they’d write to them, what they’d want them to know about the man sitting across from them. Harry said, “I’d tell your mother that you’re good. You’re so strong and so good to me,” and it started to rain outside, drops bouncing up off the pavement like silver coins. 

Draco thought of Lily, of the photos that he’d seen in Harry’s scrapbook, how her eyes were echoed, in green, on her son’s face, looking so earnestly back at him from across the table. He picked up Harry’s hand and kissed the back of it, pressing what he didn’t have the words for into the other man’s skin with his lips. 

And middle-aged men at the bar laughed and felt discomfited in turn, and young men gawked, and the barback set down the glass he’d been so carefully polishing and stared. 

Harry turned up the collar of Draco’s coat and kissed him back, lips hot and dry and soft as they pressed quickly against Draco’s lips, his nose, his jaw. They left, door thumping behind them, and Harry said something under his breath that made the rain arc around them, keeping the damp away until they got back, and could light fires, and just be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some orders of business:
> 
> a) Thank you for being so patient with such an unpredictable upload schedule.
> 
> b) We're veering in and out of character! sorry! but we do what we can
> 
> c) Someone smarter than me please write a Cornwall fic where these two explore Merlin’s Cave at Tintagel (or if this already exists, point me in its direction!) 
> 
> d) Since I last uploaded (a long time ago), Jo wrote a radically terrible tweet co-signing a TERF, and I'm still angry for every person affected. Those who support the erasure of the best of us should know that they are not welcome in this space.


	6. you are here. you are here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driving lessons, and codependency, and careful touch, and taking their time with goodbyes.

Draco shifted unhappily in the leather seat, squinting at the sun through the windscreen, smudged and streaked with dirt from the Cornish country roads. Neither of the men had touched the car in the time they’d been here, opting instead to walk into town when they needed to, or to bunker down in bed when the rain lashed too strongly. Wrappers from roadside burger shacks crinkled, underfoot, as Draco tapped back and forth between the pedals, deciding which of them to press.

He glanced up at the rearview mirror, releasing his grip on the wheel to adjust it. In his reflection he saw himself pale to the point of translucency, mouth pressed in a straight, thin line. He searched the mirror, convinced of impending doom. Perhaps another car would come careening around the bend, smashing this poorly-thought-out hunk of tin to bits, and him along with it, or maybe a stray flock of sheep would emerge suddenly from the wheat lining the road, and his last moments on earth would be filled with angry bleats and flying tufts of wool.

He slid his gaze to the left. The mirror showed another face, with green eyes almost gone, hidden in _isn’t-this-hilarious_ crinkles. Draco forgot the stress, the car, for a moment, lost in these crinkles. He loved them. He made a silent wish for 100 more years of looking at them, of watching more and more of them appear on an older Harry’s face, over eons of perfect, peaceful time.

His prayer was broken by a honk of laughter from the other man. Draco grew sullen again, smacking the horn with frustration. A little stormcloud of birds took flight, startled away.

“You’re so – cross. So gorgeous and so cross.”

Draco directed a pointed elbow towards his lover’s ribs, and Harry kept laughing, clutching his side.

“I don’t see why I need to know how to operate this blasted – thing. You already know how for both of us.”

“Well, what if I want to be the one snoring like a cherub on the backseat on the next road trip?”

Draco reddened. “I’m not in the least bit cherubic and you know that.”

“Maybe so.”

He put his hands on Draco’s shoulders, stiff with responsibility, and lowered them down from his lovely ears. He palmed small, soothing circles on Draco’s chest, reminding him which pedal meant _stop_ and which meant _go_. He placed Draco’s hands at 9 and 3 o’clock.

They made their way up the road in fits and starts, at first, spraying clods of dirt haphazardly from the back wheels. With time the ride got smoother, Draco relaxing his grip on the wheel, learning what it meant to synchronize the gears and levers and axles, doing his best not to think about what exactly a combustion engine was and how it functioned.

Harry murmured little words of praise, annoyed and amused and not at all surprised at how quickly Draco picked things up, how Draco’s fear of failing gave way, as it always did, to deep and abiding care, how both of them could lean further back into the leather of the seats now, danger fallen away. He dropped the cushioning charm from around the car with a quick jerk of his wand – Draco did not notice, pink tongue poking out with concentration.

They parked up the hill, Harry guiding Draco’s hand on the gearshift, beneath a tree blasted bare by years of wind. Harry yawned big, stretching his arms up over his head, his shirt lifting a little with the motion. He placed his boots, first one and then another, onto the dashboard with a thud. He rolled his neck to the right, head lolling a bit, and looked at Draco. 

“Thank you. Thank you for doing this.” 

Draco dropped his hands from the wheel, folding them in his lap. 

“I didn’t have much say in the matter.” 

“Well, no. But you were gorgeous at it.” 

Harry smiled, then furrowed his brow. 

“I’m sorry for pushing at it. I just want to make sure that – I like to know that all the bases are covered. If we were ever in an emergency, and couldn’t, you know, if we had to rely on something like this –” he gestured, vaguely, around the car, “I want to know that you can use it safely. And that, you know, you’re set for if I’m ever not around.” 

Draco felt cold, all at once, at the core of himself; wrapped in thin veils of dread and fear and anger.

“And is that something you’re planning on, Potter? Not being around? Because it’s really very good of you to tell me that now, as it’s only been months.” 

“Hey –”

“All I – all I want is you. You’re all I have. How dare you talk about taking this away.” 

Harry straightened quickly in his seat, cursing when his legs tangled up with each other in his hurry to remove them from the dash. Draco was stiff, and blinking, fast and angry.

“No, love. Never. Not going away. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I – I don’t know how to talk right, sometimes. I’m stupid and you’re so clever and so very, very loved. So very important to me.” 

He grabbed Draco’s hands, rubbing them between his own. 

“The most important thing to me,” he murmured. 

Draco leaned over and dropped his head onto Harry’s chest, breathing deeply. He smelled woodsmoke and olive oil and sweat. He felt the nap of his shirt on his cheek and rubbed into it, wanting to feel. Harry pulled the rest of his body over the car’s console, gathering all of Draco into his arms. 

“I know what you meant,” Draco said, muffled.

“I know you know what I meant. I still should’ve said it better.” 

“I don’t think there is a better way to say it.” Draco shifted, facing Harry. “It’s just that there’s no me without you.” He pressed against the other man, drinking him in. “Waiting for you to come home at night takes more out of me than – than anything He ever did. I know who and what the people are that you chase, and what they’ll throw at you, and it makes me ill. But I know who _you_ are, and that I cannot stop you from doing right. Doing good. So I wait.”

Harry tightened his grip on the smaller man. 

Draco was quiet for a moment, before speaking again, his voice soft and incredulous. “I wasn’t a person when you found me. You helped me become one. There’s simply no me without you.” 

The world shrunk down to two heartbeats, the scrunch of leather, birdsong filtering through the glass. The car surged with love waves and they drowned in them, crushing together, bent on becoming one being, one person, one heartbeat. 

Draco mouthed at Harry’s throat, jaw open and aching with want. Harry slid his hands up the back of Draco’s sweater, not taking it off – the air was too cool, Draco was still too thin, even after months of plying him with roasts and puddings and love – and he grabbed wildly at the smaller man’s torso, wondering how something as vast and eternal and blinding as this man, as their love, could be contained within 24 ribs, under sheer, pale skin, which was quickly coloring pink at Harry’s touch. 

Thighs slid open and the two slotted together, fitting perfectly, made for each other. They rode fast and hard, sweating and cursing at the drag of denim and the exquisite weight of each other, how the space in the car was at once small and infinite. Nothing mattered but pressure. Nothing mattered but time, and they had all of it they wanted. 

“You can – ah – see the ocean from up here,” Harry said, and Draco nodded, busy at his collarbone. “It’s like we’re at a drive-in. But so, so much – fuck – so much better.” Draco wasn’t sure what a drive-in was, and didn’t care. He twisted his hips, a new angle lining their cocks up together, length to length, and Harry stopped talking, as he suddenly couldn’t remember how.

All they were was movement, fast, and then slow, slow, slow. An eternity of movement. Their backs arched together, in sync, and they came, following and leading each other. 

Draco collapsed down onto Harry, and Harry held him, tightly, arms shaking with the effort. He smoothed down the blond man’s hair, love-mussed. He leaned down, lips brushing a lovely ear. 

“Draco, I’m thinking I’m going to marry you one of these days.” 

Draco nodded into his chest. “You are,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

The birdsong ended, and another began. The world was the car, the two of them. One heartbeat.

~~

Draco came to a grudging acceptance of the car: as much as he disliked it, the fact was that it was now a holy place for him, having housed the moment he and Harry had decided to say yes to each other, each day, until death. He smoothed his hand over the seat, the corners of his mouth quirking up at the splotch that wouldn’t come out of the leather. 

He heard a thud, behind him, and he swiveled his head, watching Harry toss the last of their bags in the boot. They’d be returning with so much more than what they came with, which was always the way with trips like these: bags of saltwater taffy for various nieces and nephews (and a few for Harry, as well), china plates that Draco had found and couldn’t bear to leave in a Muggle antique shop in town, salt-sprayed romance novels that they’d bought for 99p and read out loud to each other, bundled tight and laughing, on the beach.

They’d put an inch of fresh water in all of the jam jars with lavender. They’d baked a cake and left it for Fleur and Bill and the children on the table, along with a note, held in place with a little seashell. They’d kissed in front of the kitchen window again, blood roaring in their ears at the same tempo as the sea. All that remained was to go. 

Harry slid onto the bench seat beside him and Draco adjusted the mirror, their eyes meeting. Harry’s were a bit glossed-over – he had a habit of making wherever he was his home, and he was never good at leaving. He settled a hand on Draco’s thigh and sighed, remembering that home was now the blond man beside him, and that he’d never truly have to leave again. 

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. Draco smiled, and ground the ignition key (the wrong way, first, and then the right way, but this was what practice was for.) They drove up the road, Draco’s wand stuck to the dash and glowing, swiveling this way and that, before settling in a northwesterly tilt. Shell Cottage grew smaller and smaller, winking golden in the morning light, tucking itself firmly out of sight behind a hill as the two made their final turn towards the highway to London, the road long and smooth and quiet, the morning beginning, only for them.

~~

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,  
and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to  
choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and  
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your  
heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you  
don’t even have a name for.   
\- Richard Siken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for every kind word. I loved doing this. I’ll do it again someday (fully planned out, and posted at a much more respectable upload rate, too. Promise.) 
> 
> I’ll miss this one but phew - glad it’s buttoned up! Love you all. What a fun and lovely mess.

**Author's Note:**

> All titles and chapter headings came from Richard Siken's poem "You Are Jeff," which gave me the starting image for this piece -- the two of them, in the car, heading for something. 
> 
> (Poem:)  
http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff-crush-by-richard-siken/


End file.
